Keepsake
by Dismayed Critic
Summary: I’ve reached a point in my life where I’m perfectly capable of accepting things for what they are, but this infatuation really must come to a screeching halt.[wip]


Disclaimer- I'm living…if it were mine…well it's not, so who cares. Damn wit-stealing monster, I'll get you some day.

A/N- Inspiration: Keepsake by State Radio. Fucking wonderful song, I suggest you listen to it while reading if you can (hello iTunes). This was supposed to be a one-shot, but it was getting so damn long that I gave up. Hopefully I'll finish this, I mean, I have some major motivation flowing (thank Chad for that, will you?) and already have most of chapter two written. Um, I don't know if you will be able to just miraculously know this, but it's from Hermiones point of view – I should have made that clearer while writing it. Bad Courtney.

I really should get a beta, my grammar is rather pathetic. Plus, Word sucks (sometimes) when it comes to commas, which just so happen to be my grammatical downfall. Any suggestions or offers would be amazing (hint: please find me a beta).

Rating is for language – I'm following the you-can-only-say-fuck-once-without-earning-the-R-rating rule (picked up from Be Cool, of course, I'm already the Queen of Coolness so I didn't really learn much from that movie), and guess what, I say fuck a lot.

As always, reviews provide fuel to my fire and are entirely wonderful.

**Keepsake **

_Chapter One_

It's fucking raining.

Rain makes my hair uncontrollable. Yes, more so than usual. If it wasn't for that, I'd love the rain.

Okay, so it's not really my hair which makes me hate the rain. It's the fact that rain has the unfortunate connotations of melancholy and remorse, it rained during every battle. Every goddamn one.

Some say it has an alleviating quality and I try to believe them. I tell myself that drop was for Ginny, and that one for Ron. That one's for Seamus. That one for Terry.

That one's for Daddy.

It doesn't work. I knew it wouldn't, everything's just all…hard. I mean, I thought being a frizzy-haired fifteen year old was hard, but this, this is so much worse. I try (so hard it fucking kills) to forget that last battle (Friday, April 19, 2002), to wipe its caustic memory from my mind, but I'm perfectly incapable of doing so. Not just because it's now a holiday in both wizarding and muggle Britain, but because it just feels so wrong.

I sometimes merely try to forget the red, I mean, it was a wizarding war and all, there shouldn't have been blood. But there was.

Oh god, there was blood.

April 19 is just around the corner. I turn twenty-five and a half that day. Will turns eleven. Ron's gravestone turns three.

I cannot believe how old I am. Ten years ago, when I was fifteen, Will was born. Such a large age gap, such an unstable relationship. Mum and I are throwing him a surprise party, I'm afraid he'll hate it. I breached the idea when Mum informed me that he wanted to do nothing for his birthday, but I told her eleven is a big age. Maybe, just maybe, he'll be a wizard. It'll give us something in common. The chances are slim, but hey, look at the Creeveys. Mum cried at that, she doesn't want to say no, but she will if the time comes.

The party store is right there. Right across the street, but I can't force myself out of the rain. It's my life. It's not monochromatic or enlightening or healing (at all, some were so fucking wrong). It's not even a nice shade of gray for Heaven's sake. Just bleak and woeful, like a broken heart. I wish a brought my wand, that way I could at least apparate home when I'm done, it's a short walk, but is a bit of a bitch with a bag full of supplies.

* * *

"Need some help?" a voice came out of nowhere. God, that voice, it's so familiar. 

"No, I'm fine thanks," I really don't need help. Four bags isn't that much really. I mean, well…yes, I need help, but I don't feel like showing some dodgy man who I don't know where I live. That's one of the cardinal rules of living alone. Don't lead sketchy, unknown men back to your flat. It's simply a bad idea.

"Are you sure?" That voice, it's too familiar. A laid back, semi-sadistic, self-satisfied drawl, yet it seems sincere in offering help. It may be a good idea to look at this mystery being before denying his help again.

Okay, looking was a bad idea. Here, standing before me in all his pureblood glory is Draco-sodding-Malfoy. I kid you not. The hair is what did it. Still slicked back as it was in his ferret days.

"Malfoy…?" I'm gaping like a gold fish. I just noticed, but really, it should be expected. Draco Malfoy, hater of all things muggle, is standing in a _muggle_ party shop. Not even a super cool, sophisticated, classy party shop. A tacky one with Little Mermaid piñatas.

"Hmm…" was that supposed to be a 'yes? What?' hmm or a calculating hmm, as if he doesn't know what to think of me. He's not allowed to ascertain my presence goddamn it, he saw me first.

Maybe I have changed. It's been what? Nearly seven years since I last saw him. Graduation. He disappeared during the war, apparently spent some time gaining respect in Prague. Lovely city, I went there for my twenty-fifth birthday celebration. Just me, Mum and Will. Of course, Malfoy was back in England the second the war was over being his parasitic self and making millions by restoring franchises, shops and the ministry respectively.

Damn him.

"Well, it was…odd seeing you again, I must be going." And I get the hell out of there, all four bags in hand, trying desperately to pretend I never saw that bastard.

* * *

"Granger!" Fuck. That didn't work. I'm only a block away from the shop and he's nearly caught up with me. Either he was completely dumbfounded by my presence or was giving me a head-start. Probably the latter, he is one bastard of a man and never does anything unless there's two…three…ten reasons behind it. He's never acted purely on instinct. 

I'm a people watcher by the way.

I won't stop; he's one, maybe two strides behind me and will inevitably catch up with me. Damn, of all the days to leave my wand on the kitchen counter. I'm practically running, but it's hard, I haven't dropped the bags yet, but am considering doing so. Perhaps then I'll be able to run away and lose him. But he's sadistically well connected and will no doubt have my address in an hour. Maybe I can move?

I'm a compulsive liar. I lie about everything for no reason. It surprises me sometimes. When I say I haven't seen Malfoy since graduation, I mean since graduation from university. Two years ago. He didn't attend the school, but has a good financial hold over it. The bastard. When I said I haven't seen him seven years, I mean the little ferret-y boy with a bad reputation and a slim, quite un-terrifying physique. He grew up and out and is now all…hot. I hate to say it but it's true.

Maybe I could throw myself off Tower 42…

But he looks quite ferret-like today. The old Malfoy.

* * *

I made it. I lost him somewhere on Montague St. Thank Jesus. I'm not religious, I feel no remorse saying the Lord's name in vain. 

I've wondered, too often for my own good, what You-Know-Who would have done with us had he won. I mean, would he have used the Ten Commandments in a different light? You know…." I am the Lord, thy God. Thou better not say my name or to my savage Death Eaters you go. Remember to catch as many muggles as thou can on Sunday (aka the Sabbath day). Honor me, and me only…fuck thy parents over. Thou shall kill mudbloods and muggles. Thou shall fuck as many purebloods as thy wish. Thou shall steal from muggles and mudbloods. Thou shall kill if thou believes thy neighbor is ugly. Thou shall rape thy neighbors wife (if she's one of the unworthy). Thou shall be envious of me."

Hmm. Maybe he _would_ have done some strange maniacal thing like rewriting the commandments to suit him. We all knew the old bastard was off his rocker.

I hope that experiment at work hasn't exploded into some terrible modern rendition of Minoan Crete.

A/N: Okay, bad place to end the chapter; it doesn't really seem to transition well, but hey, we're in Hermiones brain and Hermione's a genius, and who the hell knows what goes on in a super-genius's brain? Not me for sure. I hope it wasn't a pathetic attempt at humor or writing for that matter. I know nothing of London geography, so I'll throw in random street names because I somehow know them – feel free to offer some that would make more sense.

Please review. Reviews equate chocolate-y goodness (for me). Any grammar/spelling/consistency issues would be received with emphatic enthusiasm. Peace out kiddos.


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